Day 4
The group shrinks. After some tender goodbyes and goodlucks, Mo and Liam have left us (back to "real life"). Meanwhile Lluc and I continue to chase REAL life (with doting mothers close behind).
Another grey morning. Fitting. Today's destination: Grayland, WA. Though we've been supported this week with a vehicle, we've been working ourselves up to self-supported by adding weight to out bikes day by day. Lluc went fully loaded today (minus food), though I've been more reluctant (I'll use a little help while I can get it...)
The first stretch today could have been the prettiest coastal road yet. Still staying off of 101 (those logging trucks are enough to scare anyone off the road for a day or two), we rode 109 south clear to Ocean City: a little less spectacular than Ocean Cities of any other state. The road however, was incredible. Winding up and down over long overgrown dunes, diving deep up into draindges dark with douglas fir and huckleberry bushes, only to wash us out the other direction out into the ocean breeze again. There were some good climbs, but I had no complaints. It was so much fun, I didn't even take a photo. You'll just have to go there yourself.
I do have a thing for roadside folk art. That beautiful quirky thing we call Americana. A lovely example presented itself in Ocean City:
What else did you think Big Foot and his buddies did in the Summer?
We rode 109 all the way into Hoqiam along a less-than-spectacular stretch, of which I only remember some odd roadside litter (including but not limited to: a child's shoe, a lazy boy, and the remnants of a porcupine), and a huge mudflat that covers most of the bay just outside Hoqiam and Aberdeen. I must admit I was not particularly looking forward to this section, I believe often thought of as the armpit of Washington. I try to be open-minded about towns like these, often finding some redeming qualities if I allow myself to. But todays ride left me without a lot of hope. A straight strip of auto parts, fast food, and second-rate big box stores strewn with broken glass of shattered windows and broken bottles, boarded up houses without any inclination of a buyer or even a seller, empty shopping plazas with weeds taller than I springing from the asphalt. As we rode by, a man with clothes 5 sizes too large walked aimlessly between lanes, his hand crooked at an odd angle behind him, looking at the scenery with glazed eyes. That one sunk deep.
I seen scenes like this beforex many times over. But there's something here that's feels even more vapid. Perhaps its the juxtoposition of the wretchedness of these towns with the beauty of the coast that I find so depressing. What have we done?
We rested in the parking lot of a drug store in Hoquiam before attemping Aberdeen and the bridge between them.
After that toil, we were rewarded with a long, flat, well-paved stretch towards Westport. I had driven this section before on trips to the coast and remembered Brady's Oyster shack, standing just off to the side of the road, overlooking Washington's #1 oyster beds (so says the sign). I had in fact stopped there for oyster shooters before. There is something very primitive and very cultured about slurping an oyster from a shell while smelling the briney air and, tossing the shell onto a mound on the bank; a very intinate interface when you take in the landscape with every bite. One can't help but swallow some of it and have it become a part of you. After all, you are what you eat. ... Is this a food blog now?
South of Westport, we stopped at a winery for some water (disappointing the owners, oh well), and continued down the coast now to Grayland. On the way, we crossed another bridge as an old man with white beard and wooden cane was walking the other way. In a high, dry voice with few teeth, he hollared "Yall havin' fun!?" "Yeah!" We called back. "Stay outta trouble now, ya hear!" Yes, word for word.
Grayland has a definite "beach town" culture, far mor distinct than up North on the Peninsula. Here there's houses with buoys hanging all over, kites for sale, cafes with kitschy names, and lots of state parks. Up north, the people lived from the ocean. They worked the ocean, it works them. Hard. The relationship seems far less about fun and it shows. Both beautiful, this one a little more relaxed.
Finally, after a long overcast day, the sun burned off the clouds and released a passionate sun just as we found home at a state park on the beach. It was glorious.
Off the bikes and immediately onto a sandy path through whipping dune grasses and out onto the beach. And wow, what a spot. So wide, there'a tire tracks from racing cars down by the surf. The wind had whipped the sand into ripples, some 2 inches apart, other 6 feet wide and surging like swells. The grasses left waves downwind. Little Snowy plovers dart about on stilt-legs. It's magic.
Another grey morning. Fitting. Today's destination: Grayland, WA. Though we've been supported this week with a vehicle, we've been working ourselves up to self-supported by adding weight to out bikes day by day. Lluc went fully loaded today (minus food), though I've been more reluctant (I'll use a little help while I can get it...)
The first stretch today could have been the prettiest coastal road yet. Still staying off of 101 (those logging trucks are enough to scare anyone off the road for a day or two), we rode 109 south clear to Ocean City: a little less spectacular than Ocean Cities of any other state. The road however, was incredible. Winding up and down over long overgrown dunes, diving deep up into draindges dark with douglas fir and huckleberry bushes, only to wash us out the other direction out into the ocean breeze again. There were some good climbs, but I had no complaints. It was so much fun, I didn't even take a photo. You'll just have to go there yourself.
I do have a thing for roadside folk art. That beautiful quirky thing we call Americana. A lovely example presented itself in Ocean City:
What else did you think Big Foot and his buddies did in the Summer?
We rode 109 all the way into Hoqiam along a less-than-spectacular stretch, of which I only remember some odd roadside litter (including but not limited to: a child's shoe, a lazy boy, and the remnants of a porcupine), and a huge mudflat that covers most of the bay just outside Hoqiam and Aberdeen. I must admit I was not particularly looking forward to this section, I believe often thought of as the armpit of Washington. I try to be open-minded about towns like these, often finding some redeming qualities if I allow myself to. But todays ride left me without a lot of hope. A straight strip of auto parts, fast food, and second-rate big box stores strewn with broken glass of shattered windows and broken bottles, boarded up houses without any inclination of a buyer or even a seller, empty shopping plazas with weeds taller than I springing from the asphalt. As we rode by, a man with clothes 5 sizes too large walked aimlessly between lanes, his hand crooked at an odd angle behind him, looking at the scenery with glazed eyes. That one sunk deep.
I seen scenes like this beforex many times over. But there's something here that's feels even more vapid. Perhaps its the juxtoposition of the wretchedness of these towns with the beauty of the coast that I find so depressing. What have we done?
We rested in the parking lot of a drug store in Hoquiam before attemping Aberdeen and the bridge between them.
After that toil, we were rewarded with a long, flat, well-paved stretch towards Westport. I had driven this section before on trips to the coast and remembered Brady's Oyster shack, standing just off to the side of the road, overlooking Washington's #1 oyster beds (so says the sign). I had in fact stopped there for oyster shooters before. There is something very primitive and very cultured about slurping an oyster from a shell while smelling the briney air and, tossing the shell onto a mound on the bank; a very intinate interface when you take in the landscape with every bite. One can't help but swallow some of it and have it become a part of you. After all, you are what you eat. ... Is this a food blog now?
South of Westport, we stopped at a winery for some water (disappointing the owners, oh well), and continued down the coast now to Grayland. On the way, we crossed another bridge as an old man with white beard and wooden cane was walking the other way. In a high, dry voice with few teeth, he hollared "Yall havin' fun!?" "Yeah!" We called back. "Stay outta trouble now, ya hear!" Yes, word for word.
Grayland has a definite "beach town" culture, far mor distinct than up North on the Peninsula. Here there's houses with buoys hanging all over, kites for sale, cafes with kitschy names, and lots of state parks. Up north, the people lived from the ocean. They worked the ocean, it works them. Hard. The relationship seems far less about fun and it shows. Both beautiful, this one a little more relaxed.
Finally, after a long overcast day, the sun burned off the clouds and released a passionate sun just as we found home at a state park on the beach. It was glorious.
Off the bikes and immediately onto a sandy path through whipping dune grasses and out onto the beach. And wow, what a spot. So wide, there'a tire tracks from racing cars down by the surf. The wind had whipped the sand into ripples, some 2 inches apart, other 6 feet wide and surging like swells. The grasses left waves downwind. Little Snowy plovers dart about on stilt-legs. It's magic.
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